The pigeons flutter over, disturbed by
marching feet; today is the day of battle!
This damn mind slips, engrossed in obsessions
other than passing nights where greased valves,
should signal an act of slick defiance.
The muscles dont forget the steps as easily;
they are torn, wearied from other trials.
How odd that war should take place in this city,
with all the touching wastelands to choose from?
The horns shall call first, cutting their edge,
clustered together as the judge calls forth.
Bass to follow; winds combine to soothe
the spitting spray fly & mucus, joining
the ratt a tat tat along the drum rim.
Its a matchstick struck, then flung through the void,
flame attempting a feeble catch before...
Anger is brewing, abuse of the years
spewed passed lips, then forty feet of brasswork
to become the word called harmony,
set to the tune of loneliness, unique
to all the half children we cultivate.
...and I had forgotten it was today.
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